


No Hesitation

by honestlyfrance



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Bucky Barnes Remembers, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Running Away Trope, Sam Wilson is a badass, Swearing, Unreliable Narrator, someone gets shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:56:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23375761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honestlyfrance/pseuds/honestlyfrance
Summary: Bucky Barnes had a target: Sam Wilson, and just because the man was pretty good looking doesn’t mean he’s not gonna pull the trigger.orTwo idiots get shot for a measly half a million dollars.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	No Hesitation

**Author's Note:**

> another one!! this one was done ages ago for the sambucky bingo square: Assassins AU!! I really love the way this turned out, so,, leave a comment or kudos or whatever! stay safe out there x
> 
> the fic is set after Captain America: The Winter Soldier!

You must remember that I am an international assassin, and I do not fuck things up so easily when it comes to my job. I once was assassinating against my will, until the coding in me began to fade away and I became more human—I walked away from HYDRA with so much blackmail and secrets that could cause the world to collapse. I haven’t seemed to falter in my deadpan expression until this target had caught me off guard.

Samuel Thomas Wilson. Sam. Works at the Veteran’s Affairs. Lives in D.C. Washington. Jogs at _ungodly_ hours every day. He’s got that cute smile he got going on whenever he yelled during his runs, and I agree wholeheartedly; anyone who calls yelling during runs weird is invalid and doesn’t know that it helps _so much._

I’ve been watching this man an awful lot now, seeing him in some places before he became my target, but seeing him so open and bare sent me backward in time. Sam Wilson was a bastard, in my opinion, and he had no right to look that good as the red streaks of sunlight settled on his cheekbones. 

Was he even real?

He’s a twenty million dollar target, and I deserve to slow down on this.

I’m situated by the damned building that he kept passing on his jog, the Lincoln Memorial, and I see him through my scope, jogging at a steady pace in a sweatshirt and shorts, getting his routine on the go. I’ve only watched him from this point of view yet I have learned so much from him.

Actually, no I don’t.

Which was probably why I let myself linger on this case for a full week before pulling the trigger.

The time I found my place was when I woke up at three a.m. to eye where his usual routine was, and he was there thirty minutes later jogging; I didn’t even see him by the Monument, he just passed by me when I was walking up the goddamned steps. _The fuck?_ I’ve seen things more ridiculous than this before the sun had risen, but I have to admit, a target that wakes up before four in the morning to do mundane things is completely out of my lane.

I mean, look at me: I woke up at two in the morning so I could set my rifle. There’s crazy shit happening in two in the morning.

I have then dedicated the first two days of my given time to study Sam Wilson and his habit, and all I learned so far was that he comes at the same time on the same path, and he did not once flinch or bothered to look around when I threw some rocks or made some suspicious noise on purpose. It was as if this man didn’t care if I just blocked him mid-jog and pulled out a SIG Sauer P226 and buried his decaying corpse in New Jersey. 

The third day, however: Sam Wilson came in a few minutes late, just eight minutes, and he jogged at his usual place; this was when I hid behind the trees instead, and I was so close to him. That’s when I saw the thigh holster on him, and there I deducted from the shape his shorts formed that it was a small weapon. Just seeing it sent shivers down my spine, electrifying me in a way I didn’t understand. The possibility of having to encounter him in combat then aroused me somehow, and strangely enough, I could see him pulling out the knife and striking me without hesitation. 

I went back to my first hiding spot behind some columns in Lincoln Memorial.

Everything else became mundane. I watched him through the scope of my rifle as I lay on my stomach, hidden by the shadows. The sky would then turn a dark violet as Sam Wilson passed by me several times, and his ignorance only proved fruitful; there’s a sick part of me that wishes he’d discover me, and then I realized I was just starved of companionship. I’ve come across a lot of targets who were skilled in combat, but there was something human about this man that made me reel into his persona. I never knew I could want to know someone this badly, badly enough to risk my profession and safety.

I only became my assassin-for-hire when my empty pockets burned a hole on my skin; it granted me the fear of the people, and I know that the only way to keep people away from you was to make them fear you. It’s not my fault they’re afraid of me though. It’s also not my fault I kill people for a living. I was hungry, starved, abused—I knew that the only way to survive was to kill instead of dying. 

I mean, that’s what I knew.

It was on my fourth day that I decided that enough was enough, shooting Sam Wilson blank in the forehead was like shooting a sitting duck. He’s a clear shot. No one came into the picture until five in the morning, so I’ve got two hours of a window. It was too perfect. Sam Wilson _was_ too perfect.

He’s walking now, oblivious to my presence, and I feel so giddy.

As an assassin, my targets tend to see me as their last sight they’d see before they pass. So the fifth day was pretty confusing.

It was barely three in the morning when I crouched down in the same Lincoln Memorial I’ve made a home myself for. I saw my target approaching, Sam Wilson in all of his sweatshirt glory. His way of jogging was with arms leveled by his chest, leaned forward just a bit, and his knees moving him along, so it was not a surprise when he fixed his sleeves as he jogged.

Then I think: _Shit_.

A bullet flew into me, knocking me over right after I pulled the trigger. I staggered back onto my side as I bring my body behind the column, clutching the area between my shoulder and neck, right by my collarbone. A few seconds later I recovered from the strong push of the bullet, patting myself on the back for the super-soldier serum and the bulletproof vest I wore. I quit my panting and listened in, but I didn’t even hear the wind; there was a ringing in my ear. With my metal hand, I picked at the bullet lodged in my clothes, and a few seconds later I crushed the bullet between my fingers, cursing at the blinking red LED light that dulled and died. It was a smart move, distracting me with a damn ringing ear.

Then I remembered _my_ bullet.

I pulled out a compact mirror and angled it, and there I saw Sam Wilson in his glory with knitted eyebrows as he gaped at the column I hid behind. I watched for a long moment, noticing that he was clutching the middle of his chest. He rubbed on it, but he didn’t make a sign or move that he was going to keep going on his jog. Well, okay—Committed much. I _did_ ruin his routine, but was it entirely my fault when he held the Glock 16 in his hand?

“Hands where I can see them.”

He’s right above me. 

I look up at him, and his eyes contorted for a moment into bafflement, but his lips still sneered. I mean, I would too if I looked at myself: the mask over my eyes seemed like it came from a comic book, and the mask over my mouth looked more like a muzzle than to hide my face, add that to the long hair and the holsters on my thighs, flesh arm, and back, I’m what you would think to see when you look up the word “ _assassin_.”

I raised my hands. Sam Wilson nudged my rifle away from me. He nodded at me as his gun steadied itself on my forehead. “Buyer,” he said, and his voice was so smooth and rough at the same time, and there’s a sense of exhaustion in his tone that I liked somehow. “I want it. Who paid you?”

I decided that if out of all the hundred targets I’ve been commissioned to take out, I want my hundredth target to kill me off right after I said something that made them shoot me in the first place. “ _Me?_ I should be asking _you_. You have nice hands on that gun. How much did they pay you?” I laughed dryly, and I saw his eyes squint under the darkness. He didn’t shoot me though, or yet; I feel relieved, however. I don’t know why.

I nodded subtly. “Twenty million.” I knelt before him, my eyes intent on his every move. I don’t feel vulnerable in his presence, but I do feel a little bit embarrassed. The price seemed too high, and it made it seem I was a professional, so it was pretty awkward to say my check out loud when I’ve screwed so hard. 

He jerked his head. “Half a billion,” he said.

Then I think: _That’s hot._

“Honestly, what the fuck, V.A.,” I said, completely in disbelief. What he said implied two things: he was paid too, and he was a killer-for-hire too; it only made my head spin as I straightened all of my thoughts. “You were the only honest thing I’ve encountered in the past years,” and my voice became small at the end, and there’s this pounding feeling in my chest I didn’t think was possible. Was this a side-effect of the serum? “And… I… I hesitated…” my eyebrows knitted and my forehead creased. My eyes lowered to the ground but I raised my chin high.

Sam Wilson raised his head, watching my every move. “Your client, Winter Soldier.”

I haven’t heard that code name in a while.

“Alexander Pierce,” I say, and he curses at himself and dropped his arms.

“S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Sam Wilson said, and the way he carried the tone made me want to change his grimace into that smile once more. “Pierce is S.H.I.E.L.D.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I knew him to be HYDRA.” and it clicked.

 _Huh_.

Sam Wilson crouched down in front of me, sitting on his toes as he looked me in the eye like I was a scolded child; so what? I feel like a child around him, so young and innocent, and it makes me feel so good. “Listen to me,” his hand tightened on his gun. “Your name is James Buchanan Barnes and you’re a war hero. Steve Rogers tells me all about you, Bucky— That’s your name. You still with me?”

I blinked for a moment, then I nod.

“I’ve done my homework on you and I can pretty much tell you that our client is messing with us, intent on killing us both off with each other. He didn’t tell me directly to shoot you, but he ordered to kill the Winter Soldier the moment the assassin breathed,” There’s something soft in Sam Wilson’s eyes that lulled me into a daze, and for a moment I lost my grasp on his words, barely realizing that he was talking about my _life_. “—Bucky. Hey, Buck. We don’t have to do this.”

I watch him set his gun on the floor and slide it away from us. It slid down the steps, making a thumping noise as it went down its way on the pavement. The sky became a noticeable purple now.

I wanted to test something out because just because I like him doesn’t mean I trust him yet.

I pulled out my knife from the small of my back and he pulled out his own from his thigh holster. He blocked my right strike with a defensive right, our knifes barely colliding. I pushed him on the chest, and I set my body above him, pinning him down successfully; I twisted his right arm above his head and his left splayed on the floor. We panted, but we weren’t exhausted by the actions.

“What was that for?” Sam Wilson whispered.

“I always wanted to do that to you.”

Sam Wilson grinned for a slight second before his lips contorted into a grimace. “You wanted to pin me down on top of me? That’s… _blunt_.”

I sputtered, on my elbows as I looked at his glad eyes. I felt my face paint itself into an embarrassed expression, and I could feel my face flush as I couldn’t help the smile coming on my lips. “No— No—No— I,” my eyes stumbled on his defenseless body below me. I stumble as I got off of him, but I only got up halfway as I explained to him. “I wanted you to pull a knife on me.”

“What?” He chortled.

 _Fuck_.

I made a whining sound as I bring my hands on my cheeks; then Sam Wilson rested on his elbows as I sat on my heels. I removed both of my masks, his eyes scanning my every move, and it was making me insecure for a bit. There was not a moment I was _this_ vulnerable, and even if there was a time that _did_ happen, I couldn’t seem to imagine it without this man.

“Have I met you before?” I asked, my smile coming together; it hurts, to smile like this. My face didn’t seem to exercise smiling enough. “Like, in another time, or?”

Sam Wilson shook his head, sighing. “Highway somewhere there,” he jerked his head into a direction, but I was too preoccupied with his body language. His body read: _comfortable_ —I was jealous for a moment before I reminded himself that he made himself comfortable for me. “We were fighting. Helicarrier, too. You ripped off my wings.”

“I’m sorry. Did you fix them, anyhow?”

Sam Wilson tilted his head back, his tongue poking the side of his cheek for a moment. He turned his head away then he raised an eyebrow at me, and there were a million expressions on his face that I couldn’t keep up with. “Not the question,” he said. “What are you gonna tell your client when you let me out of this alive?”

I raised my chin at that question, raising an eyebrow. “If I let you out, he says. Hmph. I don’t even know if you’ll let _me_ out alive.”

“Of course I would. Half a billion was a reward, and I don’t need those things right now.”

“Then what do you need right now?”

He looked upwards as he hummed in thought quite playfully, and I crack a grin. We were so comfortable with each other it seemed impossible for me to think that just a few minutes ago we just shot at each other on purpose while knowing who the other was. 

Sam Wilson shrugged, and his lips matched my grin. “I want to get out of S.H.I.E.L.D. and its toxicity. I wanted it so much it became a need.”

Then, my mind clicked.

I didn’t know if in the past life I was just naturally reckless, but the idea that I would begin to pitch seemed bonkers.

“I know a guy,” I said. My voice became a whisper, and he leaned in close until my lips almost kissed his gentle ear. “She’s a covert-op. Best. Black Widow. She could handle us. We’d run away after she does her job.”

He turned towards me and he’s breathing my air. I don’t seem to mind it. “Natasha Romanoff,” he says, and it’s like we’re sharing secrets. “She’s good at her job. I trust a man who trusts that woman.”

“I’m that man,” I nod.

My stomach flips when he smiled at me, his eyebrows creasing. I drown in it for a moment, and in the background, the sunrise gave his face a nice halo, one that made me believe angels existed in this universe. I never knew a time I saw an angel as human as he was.

Newspapers cried a few hours later: **_WINTER SOLDIER AND THE FALCON, DEAD AFTER REVEALING S.H.I.E.L.D SECRETS._** On the bottom, you would read that their bodies were still being fished out of the river and that the Black Widow had helped with the taking down of HYDRA as well as Captain America. It was a roller coaster of events. It made me sick to think of it.

The whole world thinks I’m dead.

After a few whole amnesia-filled years of thinking that I wanted to be known, as I feel so deeply with Sam Wilson, I think: Maybe being dead doesn’t mean to be fully missing.

I’ve been found. I can’t imagine a world where I wouldn’t look for him too.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr: @francehonestly


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